Raquel had ridden bareback at three, and before she was five had clambered aboard a cowboy saddle, clinging to the pommel, hard, bare feet thrust into the straps above the stirrups, dark hair flying, eyes round with daring. Dad had forbidden her to ride bareback as she grew older. He was afraid she would climb on a bad broncho some day. She had done so, but not to be thrown. That, however, is a story all to itself. By the time she was fourteen her gift for “gentling” horses had become known throughout the county. There were times when Raquel took the place of a grown man, and in some kinds of work she was better than a man. Her lithe, tireless body could be carried over more ground without wearing out her horse than the heavy weight of a man; and whether the animal was a biter or a bucker, if it had the qualifications of a good cowhorse, Raquel could have it behaving when she rode it. Sometimes she stayed home and helped Mom cook for the hands, and sometimes Mom had a Chinaman out from town to help. Sometimes, as now, she got on with the little Mexican girls, for during the shipping and branding seasons it took all hands to look after the cattle. The Daniels had not long had so much money. There had been years and years when Mom did everything at the ranch house, and carried all her water in from the windmill when the men folks were out on the range and Dad was his own riding boss, in the saddle sometimes for twenty hours out of the twenty-four. And then one autumn Dad said, “Mom, we got seventy-five thousand dollars reposin’ in the bank. Let’s all take a trip to Chiny or Californy.” So he had drawn five thousand dollars from the bank and they stayed in California until it was spent. * * * * * The Boss of Los Ranchos was not up to ring the rising bell herself the morning after Dad’s departure. Dad or one of the boys always rang it every morning, at six o’clock in winter and five in summer. Now it was the crackling of the fire on her hearth that roused Raquel. Panchito Esquibal was slipping quietly out as she opened her eyes. The fires were Georgie’s job, but he was now doing the milking and the young milch cow would give down her milk to no one else. Raquel remembered in a flash, and in a flash came wide awake, with the glorious aliveness of the healthy young. Jumping up she crossed to the sheepskin rug before the open fire. The crackling tulas gave out an extraordinary amount of heat and yet over in the corner by her washstand she could have seen her breath. Tingling with an exhilaration that she had not felt at sea level, she splashed herself with the icy water and five minutes later was pulling on her boots before the fire. Not such riding boots as are found in smart city booteries but a cowboy’s pair, elaborately stitched, and perhaps a trifle quaint as to cut about the toe, but nevertheless beautiful.